


Piano Black

by Mirabai0821



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Celebrity Crush, Drums, F/M, Jazz Age, Jazz Club!AU, Pianos, Saxophones, Trumpets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/pseuds/Mirabai0821
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now Cullen Rutherford was a man who would say he’s reasonably acquainted with Serah Heartbreak.</p><p>His dog died when he was 8 years old. His best and only friend at that age (big sisters and little brothers and littler sisters do not count I don’t care what you say Mom!) succumbed to the ravages of old age and too many pieces of ham snuck under the table.</p><p>But even after all that, no gift bestowed by Serah Heartbreak hurt the worst than when he clicked on the “Buy Tickets” button to see a big banner in red italicized script: “Sold Out”.</p><p>The one time only, special, one night engagement with B Trevelyan was sold out, and now there was no way he’d ever see the greatest jazz artist to come out of the Free Marches since Lyles Avis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic that spiraled out of control and into this when LadyApollo (http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyApollo/pseuds/LadyApollo + http://ladyapollo3583.tumblr.com/) Submitted an ask on Tumblr: Celebrity/fan au for B and Cullen

Now Cullen Rutherford was a man who would say he’s reasonably acquainted with Serah Heartbreak.

His dog died when he was 8 years old. His best and only friend at that age (big sisters and little brothers and littl _er_  sisters do not count I don’t care what you say Mom!) succumbed to the ravages of old age and too many pieces of ham snuck under the table.

Then at 16 the absolute love of his life Solona Amell the prettiest™ girl in all of Gallows High broke his heart by rejecting his application to be her boyfriend (she was handing out applications okay, when you’re the prettiest™ girl in the school you’ve earned that right). His father tried to console him by offering up the advice that any girl who has applications for boyfriends isn’t really worth your time, but again–didn’t count.

There were other, darker heartbreaks too. Shoved under a ratty and tattered rug in his brain, ones that resurfaced at a moment’s weakness or a moments pain. He knew those too.

Acutely.

Nigh on constantly.

But even after all that, no gift bestowed by Serah Heartbreak hurt the worst than when he clicked on the “Buy Tickets” button to see a big banner in red italicized script:  _“Sold Out”_.

He refreshed the page, praying for a miracle that Serah Heartbreak denied.

The one time only, special, one night engagement with B Trevelyan was sold out, and now there was no way he’d ever see the greatest jazz artist to come out of the Free Marches since Lyles Avis.

“A jazz artist?” Dorian sipped his mocha casting all kinds of aspersions with his glance. “And you call  _me_  the hipster.”

“Liking jazz does not make me a hipster Dorian.” Cullen defended, sipping his straight black drip coffee. No shots, no milk, no foam, no sugar, as though the bitter black acidity of the brew somehow reinforced his argument.

Dorian said nothing with his mouth and everything with this cocked eyebrows. “Well, what’s so great about her anyway?”

Cullen snorted, aspirating half of his mouthful of hot coffee and swallowing the other half.

“Well first.”

Dorian groaned. “An annotated list? Really? Where’s this passion for your chess game, I could respect you for that at least.”

“ _First_. She’s the best jazz artist of the age hands down. Second, she’s on par with Lyles Avis and if I have to tell you why that’s important, I don’t think we can be friends anymore. Third she’s a triple threat. Plays sax, piano, and trumpet.”

“I’m not quite sure that’s what triple…”

Cullen barreled forward, reciting this list of talents he’d practiced and memorized in hopes (now dashed by that damned “sold out” button) of ever meeting her.

“Fourth, she studied at the Val Royeaux Conservatory of Music.”

Dorian nodded at that one, admitting its impressiveness. “Okay okay, she’s a badass. Tell me more.”

The grin on Cullen’s face cut it neatly in half. Dorian groaned, preparing himself for another dissertation but it was rare to see his friend so hyped about something or someone that wasn’t his dog. The poor man had been in a downward spiral, hadn’t smiled with any honesty in a good while.

“So her second album was the one that really gave her the mainstream exposure and appeal. Working with a lot of pop artists–that new song by Leli.”

“Herald?” Dorian wasn’t much for pop music, preferring the more mellow stylings Calpurnia and the Magisters.

“Yeah, that sax riff you hear. That’s her. But never mind that stuff, which is admittedly inspired considering most jazz these days is the stuff they play in elevators and for a laugh during chase sequences–”

“Oh like in Heart of Darkness where the two heroines are chasing down the corrupt magister and the chase takes them through an old folks’ home! I love that part, stitches every time.”

“Right, most jazz sounds like that now and for her to put such a modern edge on it is revolutionary.” Cullen sighed, pushing away the last few sips of his coffee. “Damn I really wanted to see her.”

Dorian made a face, deciding how much a smile from Cullen Rutherford was worth to him. Figuring the price adequate, he asked an innocuous question. “You still work at that nightclub, a bouncer right?”

Cullen shrugged, embarrassed flush reddening his face at having to admit to the Senator’s son that his best friend is a bouncer at the local 30 something nightclub. “I don’t really have the patience for much else. They won’t let me be a cop. And I won’t go back to the army no matter how much they beg. I’m not good for much else.”

“I beg to differ on that tip. Still pounding away at that drumset?”

“Helps with the stress.”  _And the aggression_ he added ruefully to himself, reaching back for that now cold and bitter coffee, hoping the tall paper cup concealed the second blush. “Why?”

“You’re my best friend in Thedas and we don’t get to see each other as often as either of us would like. Having coffee dates every other month like a pair of old married women with high powered executive jobs.”

“Except neither of us are married and you’re the only one here who’s a high powered executive.”

“Well,” Dorian tossed his empty cup away. “Not for lack of trying.”

**

_Four months later_

He stared at the flyer, mouth hopelessly wide, attracting all kinds of flies, birds, and tiny mammals into his gaping and surprised slackened jaw.

“She’s…she’s coming  _here_!”

“Yes my dear for one night only. One of those Unplugged sets or some such.” Blue smoke curled from the end of her lit cigarette. Vivienne took a deep puff and exhaled. If this were a noir film, Cullen thought with a half smirk, she might actually blow rings. “I receive a call asking if we’ve the space for her accommodations and I reply ‘Well for  _her_  I’ll get my boys to knock down a wall or two if it’s not enough.’ Bull, how’s our stocks?”

Bull coughed, expelling the last bit of his excitement, replacing it with his usually cool demeanor. “I got my distributor coming tomorrow. If I lean on Krem hard enough I can have what we need by the big night.”

“See it done. Commander?” 

Cullen normally growled at his nickname, a good natured but unfortunate reminder of his past life, but he was too damned excited about  _B Trevelyan being here_  to protest its use. “Security’s set. Checked all the fire exits, alarms, Samson’s working on getting a few extra bouncers for the night of.”

Vivienne nodded, pleased.

“Well done gentleman, this will be the biggest night White Spire has ever seen!”

**

He straightened his tie, one he had to have Dorian tie for him (and tailor his suit jacket that fit  _fine_  no matter what Dorian said!). He paused in front of the dressing room, a brightly lit star on the door indicating that  _B Trevelyan was just behind this door Maker’s breath!_  Fist hovering to knock and give the 15 minute warning. He hadn’t the chance to meet her in person yet, far too busy double and triple and quadruple checking security, the bar, the dressing room, the bathrooms, and the CD he tucked into his pocket meaning to have signed.

**

“What the flying fuck do you mean you can’t find him?”

“Viney, hey, don’t get too riled up you’ve got a performance in,” The best friend cum manager checked his watch. “15 minutes. You know you don’t blow so hard if you’re crying, and you can’t tickle any ivories if your hands shake.”

“A performance, my dear Varric, that will not. happen. If my piece of shit drummer flakes on me again. This is the third time in as many months. There is a packed house out there. People paid good money to see my ass and I can’t give them a half assed show.”

“Nobody cares about the drummer. They care about you.”

“They care about the  _music_  Varric, not me.”

“You too, you know.” he muttered.

B scoffed, boot heels clicking with her nervous pacing. “Can we change the set? Pick songs that don’t rely so much on a drummer?”

Sera, her bassist, made a sour face. “That digleberry kept the time, not a like we really need him for that but still…Look Quizzie just cancel it, say you got sick or summat, nobody’d blame you.”

“Ugh! I’m not cancelling I made my bread and butter with shows like this and the Senator asked really nicely so–”

A loud knock followed by a softer curse (one offered because the knock was indeed so loud  _Maker I probably startled her_!) interrupted this come to Andraste moment.

“Watcha want!” Sera threw open the door and a black tie’d bouncer appeared, quite possibly redder than the lobster, crab, and rare steaks they were serving outside.

“I…I uh…”

He was supposed to say ‘You have 15 minutes Ms. Trevelyan.”

He wanted to say “You have 15 minutes Ms. Trevelyan and excuse me for being forward but I wanted to let you know that Andraste’s Favorite Mabari off your first album Earth and Sun is quite possibly the most inspired piece of jazz art I’ve heard. And that it is nothing short of a travesty that the song doesn’t get the critical acclaim it rightfully deserves and, I know I’m only the bouncer and that there are people who paid 200 royals extra for the chance to meet you but if you wouldn’t mind signing my copy of Earth and Sun, I’d be forever grateful.”

He was supposed to remember her discography song by song in chronological order of release. He remembered that her favorite note was G sharp on the sax. B flat on the trumpet, and that her favorite meter was 5/4 time. He made it a point of pride to know her favorite saxophone was a silver plated Adolphe Alto and her favorite song was Take Nine.

Yet all that knowledge, lovingly and painstakingly acquired, fled from him the moment he set eyes upon her because for all his prolific memory

He forgot

How stunningly  _gorgeous_  she was.

So instead of offering the lady her 15 minute stage call.

Or asking her to sign his CD.

He said the only thing that came to mind when brought face to face with the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in the most acute distress.

“I can play the drums.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me being self indulgent trash. This was too good/fun to keep on tumblr alone. Plus I enjoy being self indulgent trash. Oh well.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a presumptuously stupid thing to say. And Cullen hoped his backpedaled apology would be loud enough to drown out their jeers and laughs, remembered forever after as the blushing idiot by the most talented woman he’d ever known.

The elven woman who threw open the door cocked a hip and prepared to lay into him for the mere suggestion, but B Trevelyan pushed right passed her, clasped his hands and with the most heartbreakingly earnest look in her eyes _begged_  him “Do you mean it? Can you? Would you do this for us? Nothing special. No solos or anything. If you could just fill the seat, hit the drums even a little bit. Oh Maker you have  _no idea_  what this would mean to us.”

She wrung his hands, shaking them once up and once down for emphasis, grateful tears glittering at the corners of her dark whiskey eyes, 200 proof, guaranteed to knock a man on his ass, or just Cullen.

Yeah, maybe just Cullen.

“For you Ms. Trevelyan, anything.”

She grinned and he saw starlight. “Just call me B.”

Her savior dressed in a suit jacket he was unused to, made obvious by the constant tugging at his wrists, unaware that the barest bit of cuff was  _supposed_ to show. She groaned but kept the faith, she just needed a body, any awkward tapping on the drumset would be better than nothing at all, Sera and the rest would work to the fill the empty space where the solos went.

Yet, for all his flushing and stammering, and his ridiculous insistence to call her by her business name, there was charm under all that awkward. Galvanized by his fearless insistence to help her, to walk on stage and play with some of the most talented musicians in Thedas.

You can’t fake that kind of courage, or that kind of heart.

Sera was her bassist, always joking that her long fingers were good for exactly two things, fingering strings and fingering women.

Cole was as silent as he was unerringly sweet, her back up trumpet when she played other instruments. He was a creature of pure music, often speaking with little notes trilling at the beginning and ends of his sentences. She picked him up off a street corner in Denerim, blaring his horn in the snow, no open hat or music case to catch the coins the passers-by threw at him, insisting he wasn’t busking, just playing ‘because it helps’.

Blackwall owned that bari-sax, the instrument wide and thick like he was. When she piano’d or trumpeted, he sax’d. Good man, his solos wailed the sorrow he kept hidden by his immense beard and immense heart. She preferred him on the bari when it was time to play the blues.

Varric was the hype man, the one that riled the crowd, got them going or calmed them down. He had a set of lungs on him, employed for his signature holler, bellowed during any one of their intense high energy sets. He played the piano when she didn’t, and strutted about the stage when she did, engaging performer and patron alike, dancing with them, or goading them with little gestures for more and louder.

The man who  _would_  have been on the drums was cocky hipster shit by the name of Solas. All pride that one, but talent too. Ever since they started playing together she had the niggling sensation that he thought he was destined for greater glory than playing the drums in her band. Fair enough, she wouldn’t discourage his ambition, but his lack of common courtesy rankled her. Jazz musicians they were, still they had an obligation to their fans, to the music–one Solas frequently abandoned for other pursuits, like he had tonight.

The magazines and music blogs put her name in front of the rest, or made hers the only name known. But they, her misfit musicians were one unit, one music coming from disparate voices. Her producers insisted she be the face but she made sure Sera, Blackwall, Cole, Varric, and even Solas were all equally seen.

She might have to hide the rookie though tonight, watching him peel off his suit jacket (thank the Maker) and roll up his cuffs…

 _Whoa, thank the Maker_.

And take his seat at the drums.

Of course the drum set at White Spire would be far fancier than the simple Zevjan he stuffed into his garage. The base, snare, and toms were all pristine ivory white with silver clapsings that secured drum head to drum body. He had 4 cymbals, a hi-hat, and a row of chimes to feather through. A pair of drumsticks and brushes rested crosswise on the toms, tools employed differently depending on the particular tone of the music.

He tapped his foot on the base pedal, the sound echoing softly like a heartbeat that thrummed in his chest. He adjusted his seat, his distance, angled the crash to something comfortably reachable and waited.

Excitement buzzed in his veins, flooding him, exposing his nerves and senses to a live wire of pure adrenaline. His hands trembled, eager to know if he would reach for the brushes or the sticks depending on the tempo of the song. He couldn’t, was too shy to admit how much he practiced his art to her music. How he emulated the beating echoing heart of the drums in time with her songs. Improvisation came easy when he knew her music front to back and sideways, laughing with himself and his pride whenever he finished a solo just in time for the sax to kick back in.

She said she’d take it easy on him.

He didn’t need it easy.

He ignored the crowd when she stepped out from behind the curtain, all smiles and waves for the fans. Too distracted, overawed by the sheer gravity of the event and the gravity of  _her_.

She was beautiful in blue jeans and black heeled boots that stopped at her knees. Beautiful in a white blouse and chunky jewelry around her both her wrists. Beautiful in the black leather strap that secured sax to body more precious to her than a string of diamonds. And beautiful in the dark brown skin that covered her, hair twisted like braids or vines, hanging from her head all the way to the middle of her back.

He sighed, blowing out his adoration with a lazy smile. Maker’s breath  _but she was beautiful._

Varric said a few words to rile the crowd higher, electric anticipation almost visible in the air with its static stings. She told him something downbeat would initiate the set.

“I need to gain the groove first. Sorry if that sounds corny.”

“No not at all,” spoken as a breathy awed sigh.

She started the night on the trumpet.

Sera on the bass as always, Varric the piano, and Blackwall, her back-up sax.

With Cullen.

Cullen on the drums.

It was a downbeat song. Before B started, she threw him a worried, almost panicked look, gainsay clear in her eyes.

But then she put the trumpet to her lips and…

In three notes, he knew the song.

On the fourth he was with her, a short toe press to the hi-hat, and drummings on the toms muted with a towel special made for that purpose. In a simple and steady ¾ meter she lilted her notes, coaxing them gently from the bell of her horn, clear and loud, cheeks puffing like the fish, body swaying from side to side unable to stand still in the throes of her own music.

B and Blackwall wailed their dissonant harmonies on sax and trumpet respectively while Sera plucked a steady, sedate rhythm on her base, Cullen keeping watch over all, keeping them in line with his drums.

They, though he was the newest and as yet untried of the group,

Were seamless.

His long lyrium plagued nights tapping on his set as her songs repeated and repeated served as adequate practice for the real thing. He reproduced the correct drum beat, meshing well with the sax and trumpet and piano and bass.

Sera, from her stool, shot the rookie a half-cocked smile, nodding with a single solid motion, an acknowledgement.  _“Yeah, you’re alright.”_

He added flavor with the floor tom, a quick flourish to welcome B’s second trumpet solo, watching as a frisson of surprise shot through her spine at the addition. She wanted to turn, to question the rookie on his skill, but the demands of the show required she keep her horn to the audience.

He allowed space for the piano’s chords and cresendoes, and tempered his volumes when the horn and trumpet blared together.

But for the most part, he stayed on course with the same beat, adding maybe a roll on the crash or letting the high hat tingle for a quarter note longer than usual.

The song wound down, indicated by a sudden thundering piano chord, he measured his speed and volume, throttled back to let the real stars of the song shine. Knowing the song, he knew for the final few moments he was required only for rolls on his splash, crash, and ride, letting the piano bring them to the close.

And Varric did close, with a single nod of his head, final chord ringing from the keys.

The crowd lifted from their seats, ecstatic even by this mellow first offering because it was her, B, and she was incredible.

She turned to him, eyebrows cocked clear into her hairline. Compliment writ plainly in the expression on her face,  _You’re good!_

He smiled back, unassuming, pointing his drumstick at her in wordless acknowledgement, confidence growing as the smile grew across her face. 

_Thanks._

B liked to rotate, touch all the instruments of her expertise in a night. From the trumpet she went to the piano, placing her right next to Cullen, a wink thrown his way in yet another compliment from his work on the first song.

“Next one will be a lil’ faster. Will you keep?”

“I’ll just follow you.” he replied with a nod.

_Anywhere and everywhere._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I’m in pure self indulgence territory. But I gotta tell you, I’ve had more fun writing this than I’ve had writing a drabble in a good while.


	3. Chapter 3

She didn’t, couldn’t, would not sit still. Fingers curled on the keys she leaned into the first few notes of the next song throwing body and heart into the chords.

He watched her, drinking in the expression on her face, eyes closed, forehead scrunched, hair pattering across her back and shoulders like rain striking a glass window.

From mezzo forte to forte she repeated the same phrase growing louder with each turn, her loudest progression indicating the entrance for her base and drum.

The tips of his drumsticks hovered in the air poised and ready to roll on the hi-hat like he was supposed to, yet he was so distracted by her musicianship (and other beautiful things) he almost missed his entrance. A visual cue from Sera’s fingers, curling over the G-string on her bass gave him a last minute warning, saving him from making a fool of himself.

He rolled like he was supposed to, when he was supposed to, and Sera jumped in right after, the three of them setting off the song.

B’s name was on the CD but her musicians were all over every track. She played piano on this piece allowing colleagues on trumpet and sax to shine through with their brassy warbles, piano, bass and drums taking a secondary role to their sound.

She felt every note, every punch of sound from trumpet and sax, Cole and Blackwall the stars of the show for this part. Her body lurched with their hard, stair step scale notes, following along with an ascending trill, all musicians ending on the same note at the same time.

Sera lobbed a panicked stare his way, anxious to ensure he didn’t jump the beat a breath too soon. But when they stopped, he stopped.

Every instrument dead silent for the heartbeat required.

Before every instrument jumped right back into the pool of music, feet first, swimming in the shallow end.

Because now it was boss lady’s time to shine.

Solos were difficult things to track. Unless you were in the high school jazz band, they were almost never recorded on paper, constructed wholly from the musician's mind and changed slightly every time played. She likely expected him to keep to a steady rhythm in the background with no flourish, allowing Sera to fill the hole he’d leave behind.

But Cullen could pick out the similar themes in her solo now that she laid down when she recorded the track in the studio, the one he practiced to. Witnessing it live, he heard the mallets strike the strings in the piano, saw her wrists flow as she chose the major chord over the minor. Saw her smirk when she picked an arpeggiated chord he never heard before, one she likely never played live.

Playing with her wasn’t quite mind reading, rather pattern recognition and strategy--much like his games of chess with Dorian. This musical phrase here sounded best with on-beat strikes from his toms. This one sounded better with syncopation. Awkward and stammering on his own, with sticks in his hands he could beat a competent--almost masterful rhythm, this song allowing him to use all of his drums rather than just the hi-hat and the floor tom.

He kicked in a wave of sound across all his cymbals, appropriate for the phase transition, earning him another pleased smirk from Sera. B kept her eyes closed and her fingers moving, focused on her solo, brain half a note ahead of her fingers.

And he caught her, accompanying her with a syncopated hi-hat beat before a final crash on the toms, ending exactly where she meant to end the phrase.

Her eyes popped open, her fingers still moved through the solo resting her wrists on an airy passage of trilled notes while she craned her neck to stare at him, half a grin already forming on both their mouths.

Not only was he good, he was genius, taking savant levels of skill to anticipate her. Even with her regular drummer, she and Solas often required extra sessions to plan and break down the general route of her solos, so he could be where and what she needed him to be at the proper times.

He needed no such warning, no such preparation, he felt the music as much as she lived it knowing when a crash would do where Solas sufficed with a simple roll.

They continued to stare at each other, half grinning during a low impact easy passage, another question asked with a corkscrew twist on her lips. She canted her head toward the keys, 

_Follow me?_

He trilled another light roll on the splash, head bobbing firmly up and down.

_Yes._

She meant to take it easy on him, the lobster red bouncer starched to the Void and back with more stammer in his speech than words. When she met him, he was clearly nervous, possibly far too awed to be playing his first ‘professional’ gig with the world class musicians in her band. But his talent, his  _heart,_  outshone the rest, beating in time with the bass pedal at his feet as he gave her another pointed look across the top of his swinging cymbals.

 _Go,_  he seemed to encourage, stage lights making his eyes shimmer like light catching in the dimples of hammered gold.

_Then let’s go._

She leaned hard into the next phrase, jostling the bench under her as her fingers took off across the keyboard like sprinter released from the starting block. The tempo increased and the complexity of her phrases deepened. She stuffed more notes, more sound, into the same space relying on Sera’s chord changes to remain in tune and Cullen’s steady bass drum to stay as on beat as she wanted to be.

Which wasn’t that often, syncopation jerking the sound half beats before and after where the downbeat landed. And he syncopated her syncopations, jerking with her, the two of them dancing together around Sera’s steady plucking.

They jammed, if Cullen wanted to be colloquial about it, a bubbling laugh rising then sounding, atonal and tuneless, above the music. She heard him, such a discordant noise over what was beautiful music, spurring her own little giggle.

To see them from the audience, pianist and drummer moved and swayed together, rhythms concordant or complementary and  _always_  harmonious. Sweat prickled on his brow and his forearms ached, jarred as he allowed his sticks to clack against the metal rim of the drum head, every part of the instrument used in his percussion. His thighs ached too from the constant rapid kicks to the base pedal. Cullen’s entire body ached, throbbed, pulsed with the banging beat, his heartbeat jumping in his skin.

Sweat collected in the curve of her spine, aggravated by the harsh stage lights and her need to keep going, chasing the completion of her solo, the climax to the song. Her whole body heaved, rocking with her efforts making her pound on the keys so hard in ascending crescendo that Cullen thought she’d crack the ivory colored spruce keys. He followed after her, toms and snare racing her rhythm up the scale, where in perfect unplanned harmony they came crashing together in seven successive thunderous notes.

Blackwall’s beard could have tickled the floor his mouth gaped so wide. And Varric watched, exchanging suggestive eyebrows waggles with Sera from the side stage, astounded as the boss and the rookie almost set the house on fire. Cole merely smiled, counting his rests in his head as was his habit, waiting for their thunderstorm to finish before he could resume his crisp drizzling melody.

All sound paused, a heartbeat’s reprieve and rest, then reset to the laid back strolling rhythm from the beginning of the song.

Evelyn felt spent, utterly, like she just had her way with a lover and not merely played with a drummer she’d never met before this night.

And his eyes,  _Maker,_  looked hazy and half lidded, as though he felt that same heat and exhaustion explode within his body before the afterglow settled in to close the song.

When the crowd cheered at the song’s end, Sera, Blackwall, Varric, and Cole cheered with them clapping for the boss and the rookie, standing ovations and wolf whistles howling louder when Evelyn extended her hand across the drum kit.

“That’s for you, rook.”

His confidence fled him, replaced with a familiar blush. “No that’s all you.”

She seized him by the hand and trotted his reluctant and adorable ass out from around the relative safety and concealment of the base drum. She bowed, still holding on, bringing him with her and the crowd erupted in hollers and shouts, Dorian pushing his way to the front, two fingers stuck in his mouth whistling wildly.

They dipped together and rose together, the boss and the rookie, the ear shattering applause rising to even higher levels as they did.

“For us then.”


	4. Chapter 4

“So is she as insufferable as most celebrities are when no one’s watching?” Dorian teased, keeping Cullen’s grasping fingers out of reach of a desperately needed bottle of water.

 

Cullen couldn't speak, breathless with exertion, snatching the water and gulping it down during this, a brief intermission. He went to his boss’s office with a view of the entire floor, where Miss DeFer and the Iron Bull waited eagerly for a recounting of his experience on the stage.

 

Earnestly, without any trace of being overawed or starstruck. “She’s amazing Dorian.”

 

And the senator’s son knew it, or why else would she have agreed to take this gig without pay. He asked his father, who pulled a few strings, which pulled a few strings more which danced Miss B neatly onto White Spire’s stage for free. Dorian merely couldn’t resist teasing the poor panting rookie with insults to his favorite lady.

 

“Amazing eh,” Bull nudged Cullen in the ribs. “I tell you what. You both were up there. That solo, woo shit, thought some of the patrons were gonna faint.”

 

“It was quite _rousing_ dear,” Vivienne offered. “Seeing the two of you up there.”

 

Cullen sputtered a bit, drinking too much water too fast. “There were more than just us up there.”

 

“Granted.” Vivienne conceded. “But it seemed that you two specifically had some kind of brilliant chemistry up there. I’ve listened to Miss B’s performances before. I’ve seen her live as well. But I’ve  _ never _ heard that kind of music come from her before.”

 

He could feel the blush, but thankfully his friends couldn’t see it, still red-faced from the exertion and the adrenaline of playing.

 

Playing with them.

 

And with her.

 

They didn’t see the smile on her face when she bowed with him, the glittering and gleaming, the serene happiness on her face during their solo. He was assured that it was only the music that triggered that kind of joy. After all, he felt the same when left alone with his drum kit, free to play to his heart’s overwhelming content in the safety of his garage.

 

_Of course_ , he thought to himself, bursting the little fragile bubble of hope that maybe, just maybe she saw something special in him.

 

_ It was only the music. _

 

**

“Sign him. Now. I’ll get my briefcase we’ll rip up Chuckle’s contract and make a new one.”

 

B ignored Varric, her pianist and producer, friend and agent, still a little wobbly after that bone melting performance.

 

“You might want to, Miss Trevelyan, before someone else gets their claws into him.”

 

“Blackwall,” She growled angrily, righting herself on the couch in her dressing room. “You’ve been blowing your horn with me for at least 3 years now, you can stop calling me ‘Miss Trevelyan’.”

 

“I only do that,” the veteran chuckled. “When I want to get you to listen to me.”

 

“See? Even Hero agrees with me, and that like never happens.”

 

“Because you insist on that ridiculous nickname!” Blackwall growled.

 

“You’re a hero to the artform, Hero,” Varric insisted. “Most those so called ‘jazz loving’ kids out there would freak. Out. If they knew your real name. But that's beside the point. B, kiddo, listen to your elders and sign this guy.”

 

“How you know he ain’t got ‘is own gig.” Sera rallied, speaking aloud what B was afraid to. Truth be told she agreed with Varric, she’d sign the rookie-- _ Cullen _  --right now if she wasn’t afraid he’d simply turn her down.

 

Playing with him was like having a chain on her heart lifted that she didn’t know was holding her down. Music was  _ freedom _ from so many ghosts, and never before that night had she played so openly, wildly, able to unleash her talents so damned freely without worrying about leaving her friends behind.

 

Like drinking wine when you’d only known water.

 

Like hearing a harmony when you'd only heard single notes.

 

“I uhh...I don’t wanna take him from his other obligations. Not to mention Solas would have a fit.”

 

“Only Chuckles isn’t really here to protest now is he? If he was, this conversation would be pointless. But he’s not, and this isn’t the first time he’s left all our asses in a sling for it.”

 

B started to protest then choked on it, a knock from Cullen startling the words right out of her.

 

“It’s um...10 minutes miss, before the intermission is over.”

 

Rocketing to her feet, B opened the door wider to let him in. “Thanks for the reminder.” She forgot what she was supposed to say next, awkward silence starting to creep in between the two who just smiled, dopily, at one another.

 

“So...next number, we’re gonna play…” Varric prompted, chortling to himself in his sleeve. B was notoriously focused,  _ especially _ concerning her music, making no real allowances for diversions outside the occasional glass of wine with her bandmates and certainly not allowing for any kind of lover. But this rookie, made the kiddo flustered in ways he'd never seen before. Yeah sure he was a flipping genius on the drums, but it was more than that. Solas was a genius drummer, B played well with him. But this rookie... _.by the stone_.

 

There was something about him that was definitely more than just the music with her.

 

“Right…um...so when we planned the set…”

 

Blackwall groaned, as did Varric. Sera punched the air, though, in triumph while Cole remained his usual stoic self. The next song in the set was one they all hated with the exception of Sera and Cole.

  
Sera because she loved  _ ALL  _ the songs and Cole because he’d be asked to sit out for it in favor of B on her trumpet. They didn't really  _hate_  the song but it required a solo out of Varric and Blackwall with such a high amount of energy and exertion that usually made the two older men sweat harder than what they’d like.

 

“Guys it’s not that bad and you know it, stop complaining!” B huffed, her nose scrunching like with an allergy or irritant. To Cullen it made her look very cute, as though she were blushing without the tell-tale sign of red in her face, her sweet, rich, earthen colored skin doing much to hide it.

 

“I know, Miss Trevelyan, getting difficult for these old cheeks to blow that hard.”

 

“That’s what MISS JOSIE said!” Sera quipped, throwing Blackwall a knowing grin before vaulting onto her back in a hail of giggles.

 

Blackwall flushed darkly and readied an oath in retort that B ignored to address Cullen. “I can’t say it enough, you were wonderful out there.”

 

Her sincere gaze threatened to undo him, set him to a stammering, blushing fool that he thought he mostly rid himself of by now.

 

_ It’s only the music _ . He reminded himself. “Credit’s yours, you’re the world class musician.”

 

“ _We_ are, my  whole crew, and tonight that means you too.” She stopped, daring herself, the invitation on the tip of her tongue. “It...uh…” she stepped closer, confidingly, as though about to divulge some secret desire for only his ears.

 

He stepped into her space, the two close, almost chest to chest. “It uh..” she continued.

 

_ Could be for more than tonight if you’re interested. JUST SAY THE WORDS YOU DAMNED SCHOOLGIRL! _

 

“Yes?” He was eager, straining to hear her over Blackwall’s curses and Sera’s half-screamed giggles. “Would you, Cullen, uh…”

 

Another knock.

 

Cullen stepped back thinking suddenly, his closeness a little too familiar.

 

B did too, thinking the same.

 

“Ten minutes are up I guess.” She said sheepishly, her eyes glanced up at him, poking over the black rim of her glasses, some kind of unvoiced hope trapped there in her amber gaze. “Varric and Blackwall don’t like the next song.”

 

She named it and Cullen nodded. It was actually one of his favorites, lots of aggression got worked out pounding his drums with the song's pulsing, breakneck meter. “I am quite fond of it actually.”

 

“So you’ll manage Rookie?”

 

The knock sounded again on an open door, the man at the threshold largely ignored until now. A bald elf with a pair of drumsticks in his hand.

 

“Don’t worry, he won’t have to.”

 

Solas.

 

Her real drummer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Le Gasp!  
> Thanks for all the Nice Things (tm) y'all have been saying about my silly self indulgence fic. I appreciate it so much!


	5. Chapter 5

“Solas!”

“Where in the Void have you been?!”

“Oh good of you to join us, _halfway into the set!_ ”

Her colleagues reacted with various noises of shock, disbelief and anger. She herself remained silent, emotions warring for the chance to express itself first.  
Anger primary among them,  how dare he think his time was more important than theirs, leaving them to twist in the winds without a drummer.

Thank the Maker Cullen came along, had he not…

 _I would have never met him, never had the chance to play with him…_  
  
And so gratitude became the next emotion. Gratitude that Solas’s failure to show ended in her meeting one of the most incredible musicians she ever had the pleasure of performing with.

Which brought her last emotion to sadness, that such a sublime time of playing was at an end.

“Time constraints prevent me from offering a full explanation or apology, both I will address once the set is over. “ Solas answered evenly, as he did all things. Sera huffed, muttering  curses as she pushed past the drummer on her way to the stage.  
Solas ignored her, the two of them never really seeing eye to eye, their conflicting play styles and philosophies getting in the way.

Sera was chaos, wild notes and wilder keys.

Solas was control,  4 beats the measure,  quarter note counts as one.

“I am grateful for your assistance.” Solas turned to Cullen. “Thank you playing in my stead, for ensuring the show went on. I can’t imagine that was easy for you, having no professional training.”

Cullen bristled but kept his tone civil. “I don’t have professional training no, but it was no difficulty.” He turned from Solas to face B, “An honor in fact.”

“Well again, my thanks. You can rest easy now, capable hands are back.”

Cullen brushed away the slight while considering of making a snare out of the man’s head. He took his leave heading for the door, B the last to go.

“Hey so um,” she fiddled with her hands, knotting them together. The both of them staring at her nimble fingers as an excuse not to meet the other’s eyes and see the regret that lingered there.  “Thank you again. You’re a lifesaver and more than that, you’re a damn talented musician. Really.”

“Thank you, it means a lot to me personally to hear you say that.”

“And um,” She didn’t want to rush through her words even knowing an audience was waiting on her. She needed to take her time with this, make him understand how grateful she was to him. “I hope you stay for the rest of the show.”

“Oh. Of course. I wouldn’t dream of leaving before the end. You’re amazing to watch, no matter what side of the stage.”

He sounded like an idiot, was prepared to tell her so. But the _look_ she gave him was so genuine, like she never heard the sentiment before.

She had.

But not from someone who mattered.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *knock knock knock* This thing still on?

“What the demon are you doing here, they’re about to start again!” The murmuring crowd drowned out most of his tone–one of mild worried panic.

Cullen shrugged, doing his level best to not let his face betray his heart and the disappointed sadness that suffused it. He parted amicably if not awkwardly with Ms. B, wishing her luck on her next set–not that she needed it he added too quickly afterwards. She simply smiled at him, thanking him again, shifting on her feet perhaps waiting for him to leave so she could refocus her mind on resuming her performance.

“Clock struck midnight, Dorian. My time at the ball is done.”

He should look a little more grateful and a little less like a stricken puppy, and Dorian had half a mind to tell him so when his friend perked up on his own.

The crowd in White Spire erupted in applause when B reappeared, saxophone strapped around her neck looking less like an instrument and more like a millstone. Cullen’s eyes never wavered from her, following her as she walked across the stage anticipating the first note she would blow on her horn, immeasurably saddened he wouldn’t get to be right there with her on the down beat.

Dorian watched his friend, suddenly understanding. _Well I certainly hope you enjoyed your dance with the princess._

**

“We got our drummer back y’all!” Varric could tell the enthusiasm was false, a good facsimile but false. He chewed on his bottom lip wavering between the ideas in his head.  
  
But that sweet kid Cole made up his mind for him.

Cole stepped away from his stool and placed a hand on B’s shoulder, caging his mouth with a hand whispering to the band leader.

B’s face evened into a light smile, her perpetual soft spot for Cole touched by his request. “K’ so change in plans. My guy Cole here wants to play by himself and little boy blue eyes knows how to blow his horn. Whadaya say?”

The crowd cheered, but she would have let him play even if they didn’t.

B stepped away from the mic and off the stage letting Cole take her place. The trumpeter placed a shaped metal form into the bell of his horn, muting a good deal of the sound that came from it–altering pitch and sound quality.

“Hi.” He said, making the mic reverb a bit. Simple introduction completed, he placed his horn to his lips and blew.

He wanted to help, he said to her, that he was having some feelings–which was always a good thing when Cole wanted to play solo. He did things she never imagined with his trumpet, far _far_ more skilled than she was with it. B could get emotional in the middle of a song, running high or low, but Cole was the only player that could ever make her cry–joy or sadness.

And damn, with that song –and really song was a poor description– coming out of the brass bell of that horn, she felt like weeping. Long and slow and minor notes warbling, trembling with the vibrato Cole affected by wagging his jaw up and down. He made that trumpet _cry,_ perfectly echoing the loss she felt in places she wasn’t ready to acknowledge yet, making her feel like she lost something she didn’t know she had.

She meant to make a comment to Varric but he was off in quiet conference with Blackwall and Sera, no doubt griping about the hell song they were due to play next. B made a face, really it wasn’t that bad!

He only played for a minute thirty, Cole never really liked to intrude upon the time they had with their sets, but she always indulged him and always would–it was her privilege to hear him play, and her greater privilege to play with him.

The crowed clapped, not the roaring cheers from before but a solemn applause that sounded like rain, no less sedate or enthusiastic but different, like they were appreciating the grief he touched in every listener’s heart.

“Thank you.” He said smiling briefly, “My friend was feeling sad so I had to play something sad too.”

Cole’s ice chip eyes landed on Cullen, freezing the older man in place, making him feel for half a breath that he was the friend, and that he knew the reason for his sorrow.

But Evelyn returned to the mic, horn in hand ready to go, stealing his attention away from the worm in his heart gnawing it to pulp.

“Ok! SO! Time for…”

Blackwall cleared his throat and another impromptu conversation happened. Murmuring ripped across the crowd as they witnessed the bandmates have yet another discussion. Solas making a disgruntled noise and B cutting across him with a firm denial. Sera giggled and Blackwall sighed, pulling a harmonica, shiny and chrome, free from his pocket.

“Ok! So!” She tried again. “Seems like Mr. Blackwall wants to play too accompanied by Sera on her acoustic guitar, _not_ a sideways bass.” B cut her eyes at the elf who blew a raspberry in retaliation. A bass was a bass, and a guitar was a sideways bass. Lighter? Yeah. Less stringy? Also yeah. But a sideways bass nevertheless.

B stepped away again, Blackwall standing in her spotlight. The microphone picked up his harsh suck of air and every sound after that was the blues.

What is it with them tonight? Playing the sad shit that tingled in the places the music touched, making her heart swell, fit to burst. They couldn’t be sad that Solas back right? The man was arrogant and stuffy but he was the best, they played well together hadn’t they?

Her thoughts took her on circuitous paths, swirling around in her mind, avoiding the thorny bits that started and ended with the Rookie, trying and failing to put him out of her mind. So she focused on Blackwall’s hands as he feathered them across his harmonica, trying and failing to not imagine them as younger but no less careworn, callused where the finger joints met the palm from being wrapped around a drumstick. Trying and failing to not imagine how those younger knuckles would feel brushed up against her cheek.

**

“Upfront and center huh? Got a good view of the show?”

Cullen didn’t startle easy but the voice from nowhere managed to shake him up a bit. “Oh…I …Um Mr….Varric right?”

The dwarf beamed, ruffling his shirt collar a bit, preening under the attention. “At your service Mr. Cullen. And how’s life on the other side of the stage eh? Have you had your fill of stardom?”

Varric hardened suddenly, the pianist fixing him with a stare stare, intending that his question wasn’t rhetorical and meant more than it asked.

Cullen searched for no spotlights and needed no fame.“It was an honor to play with you all.”

“Some more than others I imagine.” He couldn’t see the rook blush under the dim club lighting, but Varric had a feeling that chord struck like it meant to.

“Rook. I didn’t…” A sharp huff on the harmonica alerted Varric to Blackwall on the stage, instrument trapped between his mouth and the microphone glaring at him from under all that hair. The song was running out of measures and Varric hadn’t yet returned. The dwarf circled his index finger in the air, a gesture Cullen recognized, _one more go ‘round, Hero_.

Blackwall’s expression relaxed and Varric picked up where he left off in the conversation. “I didn’t come here to chat, I came to make you a deal.”

“I’ll take it.”

Varric blinked, unbalanced by the rookie’s enthusiastic acceptance. “Easy there, you didn’t let me finish. You can’t just take a deal without hearing the details first.”

“Are you offering the chance to play again?”

“Well…yeah…but–”

“I’ll take it.” He reaffirmed.

“Getting your big break mean that much to you?”

“What break?” Cullen asked, eyes on the stage, gaze penetrating past the guitar and harmonica to the light swish of the curtain where B stood–nodding her head along with Blackwall’s hard blaring sound, his blues harmonizing with her own.

Varric smiled and placed a thick hand on Cullen’s forearm, “Okay, say no more. But I warn you. You’re gonna have to work on it.”

Torn out of the music and away from her, Cullen asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean him.”

Behind another curtain, Solas stood unmoved by the music of his colleagues. Blues was something he understood fundamentally but just didn’t have the taste for. He waited, patiently if not annoyed, for these little impromptu exhibitions to end so the real music to resume.  “He’s not gonna give up without a fight.”

Kept in shape by occupation and hobby, Cullen hadn’t lost his military strength or training, but Solas’s thin, wiry frame didn’t fool him. He looked capable of defending himself if required. “You want me to fight him?”

Varric took the Rookie’s hand and placed a pair of drumsticks in them. “No. I want you to challenge him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cole's Song  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cLiPISVAwek
> 
> Blackwall and Sera's Song  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fcSuJi1b0OU
> 
> Because I can't call a fic 'Piano Black' and not feature songs by the endlessly talented Yoko Kanno.


	7. Chapter 7

There was reason Varric was the hype man. 

B made for a pretty face to put on album covers, but Varric brought the energy. If her music was the heart of a set, his performance was the funny bone. B couldn’t count the number of times they (when there were only two of them) were saved from panned performances by his quick acting wit. **  
**

Before his boss (sorta) and longest friend (definitely) could resume the scheduled set, Varric pushed to the fore of the stage, stealing her mic and the crowd’s attention.

“Hey everybody! Hope you’re having fun.”

B huffed, annoyed by Varric’s presumption before her crooked grin won out over her face, his charm enough to offset her blues. The crowd responded with applause too far on the tepid side for his liking, most of the attendees anxious to get back to the music they paid to see.

“Well about that, there’s been another addition to the schedule.” He waited for the speculative murmuring crest and die down. “But before you get all pissy thinking I’m about to bore you with my remix of Chopsticks, how about a real treat? But first a little backstory.”

B yanked on Varric’s collar, almost upsetting the mic stand. “What are you doing?”

“Hey, Kiddo.” Varric laughed off the rough treatment before he stiffened under her gaze, answering with all serious honesty. “Just trust me.”

He discovered her when she was barely out of her teenage years, getting ripped off by the shady manager at a shadier bar, casting her obvious and pearlescent talent before swine too drunk to appreciate it. And she knew, when he told her, she _knew_ she deserved better but fear and familiarity kept her light from shining and her songs unheard.

“No one’s going to listen to my crazy ass music.” She protested when he offered to be her manager, a real manager. One that would get her gigs that would get her _seen_ and actually _pay_  her more than in greasy meals 10 sovs and under from the grill.

There was a reason he was her hype man and there was a reason he was her manager now.

“Trust me.” He said, and she did, becoming one of the greatest artists of the genre in the time it takes most to just perfect the basics.

Sighing, B let him go, granting him her trust yet again.

Varric acted affronted but with good humor, straightening the collar of his shirt, dusting off his pants, smoothing his jacket, earning him the rise out of the crowd that he wanted and an irritated groan from Solas which he wanted too.

“Since boss lady here doesn’t have an appreciation for the history lesson, I’ll get right to the point. We had one drummer at the start of this round. Now we have another. And what I and a couple of my friends wanna know is, ‘Who Wore it Best?’ Come on out here Rookie.”

Maker bless the kid he actually shielded his eyes when he stepped on the stage. A few of the patrons clapped politely but a rich looking man at one of the reserved tables started wolf whistling and howling, his noise encouraging the rest of the room to speak up with their appreciation.

“That’s my friend!” Dorian shouted above the din.

Twenty seconds ago, in the relative safety and comfort of backstage, Mr. Varric’s proposal was still a good idea. A worthy challenge, a dream worth reaching for.

Twenty seconds after that, under the blinding heated glare of the stage lights and the _icy_ gut chilling stare from his would be competition, this was all a huge mistake. No dream was worth the humiliation he was about to submit himself too. Raw talent or no, there was no way he could stand favorably against a trained and practiced professional.

Cullen was always and ever realistic about what he could and couldn’t do. Most of his success thus far this night relied on him being an obsessive fanboy, practicing with her music incessantly  before branching out into his own improvisation--like fanfiction but for music.

And much like with writing, it’s always harder to build when you have to make the scaffolding too.

But there was something about the way Ms. B’s eyes widened when Varric announced him. Something about her expression that stilled the anxiety in him. It could have been the tiny reactionary smile, unbidden streaking across her face like a crackle of lightning. Or the short surprised gasp he heard before Dorian’s catcalling drowned it out. There was something, something there, something in her, something _of_ her that made him rethink everything again.

Made him think, yeah, for the chance to share the stage with her again, this--however it turned out-- was worth it.

And while Cullen fretted, Solas seethed.

How dare Varric embarrass them all with these childish games. Pissing contests serving no better purpose than to humiliate some neophyte nobody while chastising him like some schoolboy. They had no business in this inadequate watering hole anyway, having stopped playing the cheap shows when they went platinum. Solas had the mind to refuse, but his mother named him ‘pride’ for a reason, and he was prickly about it. He’d play along long enough to thrash his competition and remind them all that he _earned_ his spot in the group.

She should have ripped that asshole off the microphone the moment he opened his big ass mouth! How dare he put her-- _them!_ \--them in this situation! There was no way this wouldn’t end in disaster.

Cullen could lose the battle and be so embarrassed that he’d hide himself from creation for the rest of his life and she’d never see him again.

Or.

Cullen could win the battle and realize his talent didn’t limit him to slumming it with her merry band of musical misfits. He’d strike out on his own, rocket to instant success, and she’d never see him again.

Or!

Cullen, mortified by the entire situation, could flee the stage screaming, disappearing into the night and she’d never see him again.

_Or!--_

The scenarios devolved quickly, each one more wildly implausible than the last, but the one echoing coda, the paralyzing thought that repeated over and over again was that no matter what happened this night, win or lose, she’d _never see him again._

“Rules are simple. Best performance wins. You got me?” Varric asked the crowd.

They cheered their understanding, Dorian again the loudest.

Varric turned to the two musicians. “You got me?”

Solas scoffed and returned to the drumset, sticks folded across the snare, ready to begin, daring Varric or this Cullen character to protest his decision to go first.

Cullen nodded firmly, sparing himself the smallest of glances in Ms. B’s direction, hoping he could keep his heart in check long enough to smile for her.

He couldn’t, heart running away from him the moment his eyes landed on her face but he smiled anyway.

Funny how that worked out.

“Okay Chuckles. The stage is yours.”

**

The applause for Solas nearly collapsed the roof, Vivienne made The Iron Bull check on the foundation in the basement to make sure it hadn’t cracked. 

Blackwall hid his dismay behind a guarded expression, skeptical and open minded. Maybe the Rookie could pull something more impressive off, but Solas gave a masterful performance, the Rookie’s triumph was unlikely.

Sera cursed, ready to let Varric have it--whatever it was-- for suggesting such folly. Now the poor bloke was all set up for embarrassment, so thoroughly he might even think they orchestrated the whole thing as a cruel prank on an unsuspecting fan.

Varric panicked behind a serene and confident face. The Kiddo was going to skin him alive for this debacle. But he shrugged to himself, still confident, knowing not every gamble paid.

Cole registered no expression yet even he felt the doubt that permeated the group.

Cullen.

Cullen felt relief. 

No longer faced with the uncertainty of whether or not he could do better because he knew he couldn't. That it'd be folly, true embarrassment, to even try. He smirked to himself finally comfortable in his surety, the little grin serving the unintended effect of making him look confident.

Varric canted his head toward the drums. A ‘let's get this over with’ remorseful smile on his face. Cullen nodded, still grinning.

B reached for him too late to stop him from going onto the stage. “Wait.”

“Yes?”

“I...You…” Pragmatic Musician B knew this was a bad idea. Hopeful Dreamer B didn’t care. “You’re an amazing musician. No amount of challenges or wins or losses will convince me otherwise.”

To her ears, she sounded silly, but she kept talking.

“I’ve enjoyed playing with you, more than I’ve enjoyed about anything else concerning my music in a good long while. I’m glad you came, I’m glad we played. I’m glad I met you, Mr. Cullen. So whatever happens out there doesn’t matter to me. But, for whatever it’s worth, kick his ass Rookie.”

He’ll kiss her after, he decided. For now he nodded, saying nothing, striding onto the stage.

He conferred with Sera first, asking a simple question that garnered a simple answer. She reached for the necessaries and made ready.

Secondly, he conferred with Varric, asking the same simple question, earning him more or less the same answer and reaction.

Lastly, he offered apologies to both Mr. Blackwall and Mr. Cole, their talents he wouldn’t require.

Solas, secure in his victory, made a showy display of offering his drumsticks. ‘Bestowing’ them upon the Rookie like a monarch granting a boon.

But Cullen smirked again sidestepping the drum kit completely.

Making his way for the microphone.

“Uhh...this is for Ms. B.”

He nodded to Sera, and the woman plucked the first few chords, Varric joining her.

No toms, no snare, no hi-hat, no splash, crash, or ride. No base and no pedals.

With utterly nothing left to him.

Cullen opened his mouth.

 **And sang.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two guesses what he sings.
> 
> inbox me at mirabai0821.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

Cullen’s singing knocked the air right out of Dorian’s chest. He turned to the men and women on either side of him, asking them questions as if they knew the man personally, as if they were the man’s best and greatest friends and not himself.

“Sweet Maker! Did you know this? Who knew this? Who knew he could do this?”

Elsewhere Vivienne expressed similar incredulity from her faux gilded chair. “The Iron Bull did you _know_?”

The qunari shook his head, so did fellow bouncer Samson, but he, at least, was lying.

Samson knew.

He caught the kid in the middle of --by his estimation--a fucking aria one night after closing time when he thought everyone had gone home. Bastard made him _swear_ to secrecy on pain of death and dismemberment thinking his little bit of self indulgence no better than strained caterwauling.

But Cullen sang like he’d been doing it since birth, since before it even. Singing like one of the Maker’s angels taking his time as he wended his way back to the Golden City.

His song possessed them all, released upon the crowd like a glutton on a feast day to devour the hearts of all who heard--well most hearts anyway.

No one could tell how Solas felt about all this, the only sign of his displeasure being a slightly elevated left eyebrow. He scoffed inwardly, unthreatened, and if he wanted to be pedantic about it, the rookie failed in his charge anyway. This was supposed to be a drumming exhibition not a talent show.

Cole kept quiet in his simple joy, following Cullen along on a phantom trumpet, depressing his fingers on air with every note. He liked playing with him on the drums and he got the warm feeling that he’d love playing with him as he sang. Ms. Evelyn had been desirous of a singer for quite some time now, someone to round out their sound and make them more appealing to the contemporary crowds.

“He’ll make her rich,” Cole said.

“Aye.” Blackwall agreed, yet both knew they weren’t talking about money.

Evelyn felt a shiver birth in the base of her spine, building slowly with every word, traversing the length of her body and soul. She brought her hands to her mouth, covering it in shocked surprise, her eyes wide and stinging, literally moved to tears. No one ever sang for her before. With her? Sure. Her sax accompanied some of the best. But no one ever put their mouth to a mic and sang _for_ her.

Sera’s guitar and Varric’s piano accompanied but only just. Cullen carried all of the song on the sheer depth of his voice, strong and sweet like the kind of brandy they keep on the highest shelf.

The louder verses he had to close his eyes and reach for, dig them out of his chest like mining diamonds from the rough of his voice. For everything else, he kept his hands on the mic, his feet planted firm, and his eyes on her.

This was, after all, for her.

Communicating with steady glances and nods of the head, Sera and Varric stopped abruptly, understanding this final passage as the climax of the song. They wanted everyone to hear him, unaccompanied and unfiltered, their sound fell away from his, leaving only Cullen’s long and sustained call. His eyes were screwed shut and both hands clutched the mic like the anchor it was to keep him from floating away.

This was one of the diamond notes, quarried from his the depth of his heart and offered to her. One she took, grasping with both hands and a heart fit to burst.

His accompanists, talented and seasoned, knew exactly when to resume playing, finishing the song with a mellow denouement, Sera plucking the final chords all by herself a wild grin on her face. 

His eyes opened again, reluctantly, like a sleeper waking from a good dream. A dream where his sleeping persona was more talented, confident, and assured than the waking one. He exploded in a blush, one that only worsened as the crowd showered applause down on him, thundering louder than some bombs he’d experienced.

He grit his teeth together, smiling with an embarrassed grimace. _I can’t believe I did that._

Unlike drumming, singing came naturally to him, and as with all natural talents, its owner didn’t believe he was any good with it.

Yet, with the way Ms. B was staring at him, gaze broken periodically with the back of her sleeve drawn across her eyes, he might just believe.

“Now how about that?” Varric stretched his words, emphasizing each with a clap of his hands. “Well done. Give it up for the Rookie everybody!”

They audience indeed gave it up, Dorian started throwing napkins in the air and group of men and women began to crowd the stage reaching their hands for him--eager to touch him as though he were some sort of rock god.

“Is this a thing?” He questioned Varric, somewhat discomfit with the adoration.

“Well it doesn’t happen at very many _jazz_ performances in my experience but hey, look, just like that, you’ve got fans.”

Sera gave him a light shove, “Show ‘em some love Rookie. You might get some back!”

On that statement he withdrew. Fans were nice, he admitted to himself but he really only wanted the approval of one, and she was still standing alone--possibly forgotten--in the wings of the stage.

He’d stolen her show, _literally_. Allowing his silly ego and less silly feelings to get him mixed up in a dumb contest and ruining the show he came here to see.

_Of all the selfish pigheaded...damnit Rutherford!_

His gaggle of adoring fans audibly groaned with a very loud and distinct ‘aww’ when he pulled away from them, some shouting for him to return but he ignored them all. He crossed the stage, brushing past Solas as though he were another instrument on the stage and not a rival he just thoroughly trounced in the court of public opinion.

He made his way to Ms. Evelyn, apology spilling from his lips.

“Ms. Evelyn I am so sorry--”

An apology she cut very short,

With a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after all the guesses left in my inbox, I decided to leave the song he sings ambiguous in the fic itself, free for you to fill in whatever little tasty morsel of Yoko Kanno goodness you like.
> 
> BUT
> 
> If you wanted to know what was in my head:
> 
> He’s singing this 
> 
> https://youtu.be/DL_KyJpRuKU
> 
> and most of you got it on the first try


	9. Chapter 9

That wasn’t planned. **  
**

Her kiss was not planned, not premeditated, not even conceived as more than a girlish fantasy relegated to oft ignored and neglected parts of her brain (and anatomy). But his first word to her after a performance like that was _sorry_ , shit, more than that, his first words to her were _Ms. Evelyn_ after she _insisted_ he call her B. So that woefully underestimated, ignored and neglected part of her brain surged forward, hijacking her systems and better senses demanding that she _kiss his silly dumb face until it smiles again_.

And Maker bless her boldness, rather than jerk away from what could be argued as assault, Cullen wrapped one arm around her neck, the other around her waist, opened his mouth, and kissed her back _harder._

They were off stage and concealed from the crowd, their performance only for this audience of two. She made space for him, the hands pressed against his cheeks opening to lock together behind his neck. Their noses bumped and brushed, mirroring the movement going on below with lips and tongues.

She mistook the soft grunt he made for music, tasting it, swallowing it down so she could feel him sing inside of her. She traced notes with her fingertips on the back of his neck while her heart drummed a backbeat against his chest.

They came to a rest after a sustained measure, pulling apart like fingers released from pressed keys.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she said, too heavy laden with the weight of her want to bring her head out of the crook in his neck. “You don’t apologize for whatever it is you meant to apologize for, and I don’t apologize for that.”

“Deal,” He whispered against her ear, pecking staccato kisses against it.

Outside Varric kept the crowd occupied with his antics, stalling for time. “There’s a show you have to finish out there.” His hands clutched and grabbed, holding her tighter to him, unwilling to relinquish her just yet.

“We, Rookie, _we_.”

He let the sharp note of hope ring before he muted it like a quick hand to a drum head. “Mr. Solas won’t like that very much.”

“ _Mr. Solas_ ,” She mocked, her tongue _a largo_ against his throat. “Will learn to get used to it the same way Cole and Blackwall and Varric do.”

“What are you saying?” He stiffened and she finally uncoiled from him, fixing him with her business stare.

“I’m saying I want you. The others, with notable exception, seem to like you and you’ve already proven we can make beautiful music.”

Cullen chuckled against her mouth, drawing her back for a reprise, knowing she really meant the music but choosing to believe she meant other things. “Is this a good idea?”

His question went to both meanings, as did her answer.

“Do you think it’s a bad one?”

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tis short.  
> We apologize.


End file.
